*An excerpt from, The Goddess Lives, poetry, prose and prayers in her honour, by Agnes Toews-Andrews.

It was spring, and I was in retreat at Mount Shasta, California when I discovered my connection to the goddess Ereshkigal, who had appeared to me in visions many years before. Ereshkigal was also a Niburian/humanoid hybrid who had been given Lower Africa known as the Lower World, as her domain.She was the sister of Ishtar, (an incarnation of me,) a goddess who lived in Mesopotamia/Babylonia and was well known throughout the ancient empires.

Mount Shasta is a huge portal and entry point for galactics, I have discovered, and home to Ascended Masters, ancient Lemurians and Atlanteons. I loved it there, the energy high and vibrant.

Staying at the house of a friend I could see beautiful shimmering Lake Shastina from the huge west facing livingroom window and from the south facing window gigantic snow-covered Mount Shasta was visible only a few miles away.What a sight!

Fire Priestess me, ( a fire priestess is one who has access to the spiritual hierarchy) had appearances and some messages for me from Jesus/Sananda and Lorimer, an Ascended Master, at the mountain and had been meditating regularly, spending my days beginning to write some of these stories. Mother Mary appeared in all her Light filled glory, saying again she was a Healer of Women's issues. I had visits from Mother Mary in all her glory several times while I lived in Israel, and I again savoured my connection with her in these meditation moments.

Shortly after I arrived I met the spirit beings who said they were the Chohan and they materialized in my Lake Shastina residence. They are ancient priests from Lemuria and reside in Mt. Shasta mountain. They were strange looking beings with very elongated heads and were about seven to eight feet tall. They walked into my bedroom chamber one evening and offered healing for the concussion that I was recovering from. I gratefully accepted, and my girlfriend and I enjoyed their presence as she continued to facilitate the hands-on treatment as well that evening. What a presence!

In one meditation sitting I saw the Gautama Buddha float by. He was dressed in orange and beige and sitting in the lotus position, and had a huge smile on his beaming face. He was a skinny Buddha. “Kewl,” I thought, so he hung out here, too, perhaps sporadically, possibly always.

In another vision, a tunnel that went into the centre of the mountain suddenly presented itself and I soon found myself in a waiting room of sorts. All the furniture in a waiting room was gigantic and made of wood. I began wondering about the inhabitants beyond. I tried in my meditation to go further, beyond the sitting room, but only found closed doors. The bench in the sitting room sat about six feet off the floor and looked to be made of sequoia wood, it's shiny surface polished and shining. The door I got to was a large one, about twelve feet high, and looked like it was made of a copper-like substance, and it had shiny door handles that had a unique medieval look and feeling about them. They were huge. I walked to and tried to open that huge door, but I couldn’t open it and had to stay in the waiting room, supposing it wasn’t the right time to enter that space. I intuitively knew that Giants resided in this particular place in the mountain though. Giants too busy to entertain or deal with Ishtar, me, I presumed!

There are many intriguing reports of different individuals who are living in the mountain. What I discovered is that it’s a giant hotel with residents from many ancient civilizations, cultures, planets and star systems. . . in a future blog post I will tell you more about Mt. Shasta's residents and experiences here.

*To be continued.

Read more]]>toews-andrews@isismoonpublishing.com (Agnes Toews-Andrews)SageWoman BlogsMon, 07 Jan 2019 09:41:18 -0800The Creepy Visits that I Don't Likehttp://witchesandpagans.com/sagewoman-blogs/my-mother-path/the-creepy-visits-that-i-don-t-like.html
http://witchesandpagans.com/sagewoman-blogs/my-mother-path/the-creepy-visits-that-i-don-t-like.htmlIt's the little shadows that linger out of view, the waking me up at 3am, the subtle touches in the middle of the night to let me know that you are there, but invisible.

I know you are contacting me to let me know you are there. I know you are bringing me information about someone that I do not want to hear. But you don't tell me. I see you as you wear a hat, sometimes you even look like Odin and I hear the call of his ravens, sometimes like Jesus, sometimes just a white feathery being, and sometimes as a small dark spot or shadow lurking outside of my field of vision. But you are always the same. I don't understand why you take all these shapes, but I know it's you down deep within.

Every time you visit, though, something bad happens to someone that I know in some way, shape, or form. In all these years of your visiting, you nave never, ever given me any clue as to where I need to watch.

Part of me feels that this is because you don't want me to intervene. Which I can understand. When it is time, it is time. But to just be able to say "Hi" one last time. That would be nice, wouldn't it?

I have tried to reason with you, I have had personal conversations, private words, asked for guidance, for vision, for words, whispers on the wind. But you have chosen to remain quiet. It has been nearly 47 years that I remember you lurking. I would think that after all this time, you would take pity and speak to me.

You know how this bothers me. And as I am getting older, it bothers me more.

So you visit. You touch my knee at night, waking me up a 3 in the morning. And try to go back to sleep, but I ask you quietly, "Please talk to me, please give me a sign." And still nothing. I start to fall back asleep, and I feel you touch my knee again. Please let me sleep, please, if you won't talk.

I will wait, I will watch, I will wonder who, and when it happens, I will go back and think about all the possible signs.

These are my only lessons. And just to let you know, to date, I cannot find the signs, I do not see any connections, the only thing I have had one or two times, is an obvious gut feeling - I mean really, when someone is in their 90's and in poor health, that's pretty obvious. Or when my father was in ICU and you gave me signs, I really do thank you for showing me that it was going to be him. I heard you loud and clear then.

I am still learning. I do thank you for coming around. Just please, help me see better.

This is the conversation I have been having again this week. It haunts me at times to go through this, but yet, I feel it is a blessing that I get to go through it, that I get prior knowledge. I have found that even though I don't see the signs or hear the whispers, I do get to settle my soul into knowing that something is going to happen to someone.

“I am the bread of life.”This phrase is put in the mouth of Jesus in the Gospel According to John. [1] Again and again he declares himself to be “the true bread from heaven,” “the bread of God which … gives life to the world," “the living bread that came down from heaven; whoever eats this bread will live forever.” “The bread that I will give is my flesh for the life of the world," he solemnly announces.[2]

Yet the “bread of life” did not come down from heaven; it came from the hands of women and was one of the most important kinds of food in antiquity, sustaining people in good as well as in hard times. Interestingly, the word for wheat, sitos, became synonymous with “food.”

The bread, in a way, was also the flesh of the Goddess: the very name of Demeter came to be identified with it, as well as with the grain. [3] She also had the titles Sito (“of the wheat”) and Megalartos or Megalomazos (“with big loafs”).[4] The Megalartia was the festival celebrated in her honor on the sacred island of Delos in the Aegean Sea. Even a month was named Megalartios after her. [5]

The bread must have been considered sacred since prehistoric times, since the oven became the principal feature of prehistoric European shrines, according to Marija Gimbutas. Some miniature shrines contained one or more figurines which grind grain and prepare dough. The same author maintains that loafs prepared in temples were dedicated to a goddess and used in her rituals; those were marked with multiple lozenges and snake spirals were probably used as an offering to the Earth Mother. [6]

Gimbutas’s theories are considered controversial, partly because it is hard to penetrate into traditions lost in the mists of time. Yet the religious importance of the bread is well documented in later antiquity: loafs and cakes for ritual purposes were baked in symbolic forms, such as those of animals and flowers.

During classical times and beyond something similar happened during the festival of Skirophoria, honoring Athena, Demeter and Persephone, which took place in the early summer. The purpose of the celebration was to enhance the growth of vegetation. Women threw into chasms dedicated to the goddess of agriculture phalluses and snakes (also phallic symbols) made of dough, as well as piglets. It is not hard to discern in this custom another representation of the Sacred Marriage, since both the clefts of the earth and the piglets are symbols of the vagina—in fact the ancient Greek word for piglet is delphax, deriving from delphys, “womb.”

Three months after the Skirophoria, the women-only festival of Thesmophoria occurred, again in honor of Demeter. At this time, what had remained from the thrown objects was retrieved and then ground and mixed with grains which would be sown in the fields. [7] In the Hellenic colonies of Sicily during the same celebration another interesting offering was made: bread was kneaded with honey and sesame and shaped as a vulva-—a natural symbol of fertility!

The religious significance of the loaf is so powerful that it was never lost; it was carried into Christianity and continues up to our day undiminished. Thus, in the Greek Orthodox Church pieces of bread called artos are offered after the Sunday service to all those who attend it. Crumbs of bread are added to sweet wine and consumed as “the body and the blood of Christ” by those who take communion. As the new religion forcefully replaced the old one, the flesh of the Goddess was turned into the body of the Young God, while wine, the precious gift of Dionysus, was transformed into Jesus’ blood.

Yet the connection between the loaf and the Sacred Feminine persisted through the centuries, transferred on to the Virgin Mary, another archetypal Mother. The Greeks usually refer to Mary using her title Panaghia, “All-Holy”—perhaps it is not a coincidence that the same adjective was attributed to some of the priestesses in Eleusis. [8] In medieval times, bread was offered to the Mother of God and was also named panaghia. This custom occurred in the palace of the Byzantine emperors, as well as in some monasteries, where the loaf was placed on a special tray called panaghiarion.

Interestingly, every year, at the time of the autumn equinox, when the Eleusinian Mysteries were once celebrated, women in Eleusis still bake special breads and dedicate them to Mary, in order to ensure a good harvest. Surprisingly, even the phalluses made of dough, ancient offerings to the Goddess, found their way into modern Greek culture. Once a year, they figure prominently at the traditional, Dionysian Carnival of Tyrnavos, in Central Greece. Present-day “pilgrims” cheerfully consume them, in an atmosphere of revelry reminiscent of the fertility festivals of times past…

Top picture: a bakery in Tyrnavos, Central Greece, during the time of the Carnival. Photo from my personal archive.

[8] According to the dictionary of Hesychius, “Panaghia: priestess who does not sleep with a man.” For more information on these priestesses of Eleusis see Dimitrios N. Goudis, The Mysteries of Eleusis, 2nd ed. (Athens: Demiourgia, 1994), 124.

It is told in the Toledot Yeshu that as a young man Yéshu ha-Notzrí (called by the Gentiles, Jesus of Nazareth) studied with the sages in Jerusalem. Here he heard disquieting rumors about his paternity. Knowing that only his mother could tell him the truth of the matter, he conceived a plan and went down to Natseret (Nazareth), to her house.

“Greetings, my son,” said his mother, “How fares it with thee?”

“Alas, my mother,” he said to her, “I am grievously ill.”

“Alas, my son,” said she, “Would that I could cure thee of thy illness.”

“Indeed, thou mayest do just that,” said Yeshu. “It is known to the sages of Jerusalem that if a woman should place the nipple of her breast between the doorpost and the door, and a man shall drink from it, he shall be thereby cured.”

"How would you like to be interviewed for a book that questions the historical existence of Jesus?" asked Minas, a journalist, editor, and old-time friend of mine. "I'd love it if you would like to point out the similarities between Jesus and Dionysus." It was an offer I couldn't resist. The interview turned out to me more than 5000 words long, opening a host of fascinating topics. It is included in the book Jesus Mythicism: An Introduction, whose English translation recently came out. It is written by Minas Papageorgiou and also includes interviews by well-known scholars, such as Maria Dzielska, Payam Nabarz, and Joseph Atwill.

I'm delighted to share a part of my interview with you, with permission from the book's author.

In your book The Sacred Feminine and Mary Magdalene you describe the power of the female presence in Christianity and other traditions. What has been the relationship of Jesus with the Sacred Feminine? And what parallels can we draw with the cult of Dionysus?

Dionysus provides a link to a very distant past, lost in the mist of prehistory. Panagis Lekatsas describes Dionysus as the most matriarchal god of the ancient Greek pantheon. Modern scholars no longer use the term “matriarchy,” but instead they talk about “egalitarian” societies, without inequality and oppression.

These were gradually transformed into agricultural societies with a class-divided, patriarchal structure. But the systematic cultivation of the earth is a relatively recent phenomenon in the history of humanity. A few thousand years ago, people lived in relatively small groups as hunters and gatherers.

Those primitive societies saw Bacchus/Dionysus as a spirit of nature. He is associated with forests, caves, and the moon, and even with hunting and animals (bulls, goats, snakes, etc.). The ritual dismembering and eating of the victim’s flesh echoes the ancient practice of eating raw food, which later became a kind of sacrament: people become one with their god by symbolically eating his flesh, in other words, the meat of the dismembered animal. One of the major Christian “mysteries” is exactly this—the sacrament of the communion with the “flesh and blood of Jesus Christ.”

The bacchic cult was eminently “chthonic,” a term deriving from the Greek word chthon (χθών), which means earth. The Earth, as the Mother who nourishes people with her fruit, has been worshiped since time immemorial. We find her figure in carvings dating to the Paleolithic Era. Although the symbolism of these prehistoric figures is still to be decided, I think that the interpretation emphasizing their divinity seems the most probable. What else would people choose to depict – and honor – than the one thing that was key to their survival?

The Earth Mother also had a powerful presence in the ancient Greek and Graeco-Roman world. She was venerated as Gaia, Rhea, Cybele, Demeter, Artemis of Ephesus, or even Isis. Despite their differences and the variety of myths created about them, it is not hard to see their common fertility background. Besides, the Orphic Hymn to Nature highlights in the most revealing way the diversity and power of the “shape shifting” Goddess.

Moreover, close to mother goddesses we often encounter an entity that dies and is reborn, symbolizing the perpetual rebirth of nature. This deity often becomes the object of a mystery cult; for example, Persephone, Attis, Osiris, and Dionysus. After all, Dionysus’ mother was Semele, who mated with Zeus, the god of the skies. Her name is believed to stem from the root *dgem, which means “earth” and is found in various forms in Slavic languages. It was the union of earth and sky through life-giving rain that produced crops.

In Christianity, the role of the primordial Mother was given to the Virgin Mary, who assimilated many pre-Christian elements; her son “inherited” the traits of the dying and resurrected god. Like Dionysus who was worshiped particularly by women (the Maenads), Jesus was often surrounded by female students. Their role, as well as the status of women in society, was generally downgraded in the official texts of Christianity; however, a careful look at the New Testament and the so-called “Gnostic” texts can be revealing.

It is no coincidence that the first person to whom the risen Jesus appeared was a woman, Mary Magdalene. In the Gospel of Phillip, one of the Nag Hammadi scrolls found in Egypt, we read the following:

And the companion of [the saviour was Mar]y Ma[gda]lene. [Christ loved] M[ary] more than [all] the disci[ples, and used to] kiss her [softly] on her [hand]. The rest of [the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval]. They said to him, “Why do you love her more than all of us?” The Savior answered and said to them, "Why do I not love you like her? When a blind man and one who sees are both together in darkness, they are no different from one another. When the light comes, then he who sees will see the light, and he who is blind will remain in darkness.”

The Gospel of Phillip and other similar texts influenced by Gnosticism provide information that may sound shocking today: Jesus used to call Mary “Apostle of the Apostles,” “the woman who knew everything,” “the Blessed One,” etc. He even called her his “companion” and stated that she will inherit the Kingdom of Heaven, surpassing all other disciples!

Moreover, in 2012 an exciting find came to light: a papyrus written in the Coptic (Egyptian) language. This text goes a step further featuring Magdalene as the wife of Jesus. Some scholars place it in the 6th-9th c. CE, while others insist that it is a forgery.

I would like to close this interview with the words of the famous modern Greek poet Angelos Sikelianos in his poem Dionysus Encradled: “my sweet child, my Dionysus and my Christ.” Poets can say at times what is left unsaid by scientists. Joseph Campbell, the great scholar of mythology. once said: “Myth must be kept alive. The people who can keep it alive are the artists of one kind or another.”

NOTE: The above text is slightly different from the one published in the Kindle version of Jesus Mythicism. I have edited the translation and have updated the information on the "Gospel of Jesus' Wife" papyrus.

The top picture is The Penitent Magdalene, a painting by Francesco Hayez created in 1825.

At my first Brigid ritual I had an experience that was so unexpected and life changing that I fell silent. I didn’t speak about it to my friends and I didn’t write about it. I didn’t even mention it in my journal. What happened felt familiar, much like the experiences I had as a Christian, but it was also different. The differences left me confused and I asked myself if I had just had an encounter with a new deity. At the same time the familiarity of the experience made me wonder if Jesus and Brigid were actually the same, like aspects of an all encompassing deity.

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became to find an answer.But Ostara came, Beltaine, and Lammas, and the question remained. The wheel turned and Brigid came around again. An entire year had passed and I still hadn’t written anything. I decided to rededicate myself to the question and find the answer on the event’s one year anniversary. So I wrote a piece about Jesus and Brigid being the same. Then I wrote a piece about Jesus and Brigid being different. They were both good pieces but I couldn’t decide which one was true and I ended up deleting them both.

And so another Brigid ritual came and went and then it was Ostara again and Beltaine and the solstice and the days grow shorter. Again. I still didn’t have an answer. And so the wheel has turned to Brigid once again. I have already been to two Brigid rituals and I still haven’t written about her. Two years I waited to write an answer, but today I choose to write the question.

My first Brigid Ritual

I am walking through a part of San Francisco that seems like prime mugging territory. My friends aren’t interested in rituals, so I am traveling alone. I am determined to finish out at least one full year of rituals with the Reclaiming tradition before committing to this path. It’s been a lonely road so far, but at least I expect to recognize some faces tonight. Still, I am nervous, because I know practically nothing about Brigid or Imbolc. I googled both, but couldn’t find any information about what kind of ritual awaits me.

I assume it will be a small event, like Mabon, a circle of twenty, maybe thirty. I wonder why we can’t celebrate in the park and what this venue is going to be like. I double check the address as I walk through this unfamiliar part of the city. Yes, I am going the right way. At least when it comes to finding this venue, I am on the right path. The streets are far too empty and quiet for my liking.

Finally I see a few people getting out of their cars.They are wearing colorful robes, corsets, and cloaks. I have come to the right place. The venue itself is dark with high ceilings and much bigger than I had expected. I am smudged at the door and waved into an open space where well over a hundred people are beginning to form a circle. I greet the few people I know and then find a place to stand, close to the entrance. I always choose places close to the entrance when I am nervous.

A circle is cast, we call in the elements and we invoke Brigid. A beautiful cauldron sits in the center and a fire is lit inside. The fire sizzles and I am awed at seeing a flaming cauldron cast small shadows across the altar. Then the drums begin and immediately people start dancing and singing, Welcome Bridh, O Bridh is come, Bridh is welcome! I don’t know the song, but it is fairly easy to pick up and I join in, stumbling over the order of the words. The singing gets louder, the dancing faster, and I take off my coat.

There is a commotion on the other side of the circle and I see a group of Witches carrying something. A bouquet of flowers, no, much bigger, a bundle of branches? I reposition myself to get a better look. It is a beautiful arrangement of heather, greens, and lilies on a pole. As people approach and kiss the flowers, touch the branches, I understand that it is a representation of Brigid herself.An idol, I think, this is what idol worship looks like in real life! A dozen bible verses come to life and I shudder. I am torn between all that I was taught and yielding to the beauty of this moment.

People come forward to touch Brigid, to kiss her, bow to her, sprinkle her with the sacred waters of the world. I stand on the outside of the crowd, taking it all in. Eventually the dance and the song cease and Brigid is stationed next to the central altar, keeping watch over the cauldron. Then we are invited into a walking trance and I groan. A silly concept, that. I can’t even enter a trance lying flat on my back with my eyes closed wearing earplugs. Walking in a circle with dozens of strangers and expecting to enter a trance is sure to be an exercise in futility. I resign myself to failing at trances and the inevitability that I will be walking around a circle pointlessly.

The purpose of the trance is to find our pledges for the year. I start walking and struggle with frustration. I imagine everyone else having transcendent spiritual experiences talking to the gods while I am busy avoiding stepping on their feet. I give up on any semblance of trance and distract myself by thinking about what I should pledge.

Maybe something about music, playing more music is always a good idea.

Or maybe it should be related to my business, the chocolate factory I own. I reject that idea, it is too mundane, I should really try to come up with something more spiritual.

Maybe creativity. Creativity is a pagan-y spiritual thing. I’ll just say “I pledge my creativity” and get it over with. Except that it’s a very uncreative way to phrase it, isn’t it? I should at least come up with creative wording for my creativity pledge. I bounce words back and forth, wording, dismissing, re-wording, dismissing again. Am I really incapable of committing to creativity creatively? At least so far I have managed not to step on anyone.

“I pledge... I pledge... I pledge... I pledge----“ And suddenly a word rumbles through me and finishes the sentence. Heat rushes through me and I lose track of my surroundings. I can’t hear anything except my beating heart. No, I think, no, not that! The word thunders through me again, deep, strong, irresistible. It threatens to consume me, it takes over my body, my mind, until there is nothing left but that word and my racing heart. NO! I think directly at it. NO! I take a deep breath. I reach for my rational mind and look around to anchor myself in my surroundings. Apparently I have stopped walking and people are walking around me like a river splitting around a boulder. I take another breath and shake my head to clear my thoughts, then I rejoin the walking.

It’s nothing, really. It’s just my mind playing tricks. It’s nonsense, complete nonsense. I wish my heartbeat would slow down. I feel as if I am waiting to be called into a doctor’s office to receive a diagnosis. Dread and anticipation and the desire to make it all go away, mixed with an insatiable curiosity. The moment I allow myself to feel the curiosity, the word presses against me again. This time I don’t let it overwhelm me. I keep walking and I push it away. It is nothing. It is nonsense. Creativity is what I will pledge. I just need to find the right wording.

I look up from the flowing river of trancing Witches and stare at the fire in the cauldron and at Brigid. The trance journey is ended and people are forming a circle again. Everything is overwhelming, the darkness of the space, the sparse lights, the sounds and the silences in between. I fight to regain composure and back away from the center, hoping to fade toward the edges of the circle. There is an empty space between two lines of blue tape on the floor and I retreat there. Someone steps into the center and tells us to form three lines and wait for our turn to come to the center and speak our pledges. I am not sure that I want to do this part.

Everyone is moving around now, but I don’t know where to go. I search for the areas where the lines will form so I can avoid them. Suddenly I notice that a line of people has formed right behind me. Why? I wish my mind was a little clearer! And then I understand, I am standing on the very spot that marks the beginning of a line. Panic seizes me and look for a way to back out, but just then someone walks up, points at me and two others, announcing we are the beginning of the lines. I am officially doomed.

There is an energy pulsing through the room and it feels like a long lost powerful friend, familiar and strange. I feel held and supported even while fighting my panic. Someone from the first line steps into the circle. She speaks her pledge and a hammer hits an anvil. I jump. Before I can gather my wits again, it is my turn.

Somehow I find my way to Brigid and the cauldron. I run through the carefully crafted words in my head. I hear the sizzling of the fire and step closer even as my heartbeat drowns out all other sound. I glance at the Brigid effigy and tell myself that I can do this. Then I place my hands over the cauldron and look into the fire and as I do, time shifts. I lose the ability to differentiate between seconds and hours. I wonder if I have always stood over this cauldron and if I always will. Something in the back of my mind tells me that there are people waiting, so I open my mouth to speak the memorized words. “I pledge----“ and in that moment an energy surges through me and takes hold of me. The edges of my vision shimmer and my focus tunnels into the fire. I feel the molecules in my body dance and my spirit catch fire. I wonder if I could resist it, but I no longer want to, so I let it take me. I tremble as I become the fire and the fire becomes me. I become one with the molecules around me. Everything becomes more real, more alive. Joy rushes through me, but it is not a light joy, it is heavy with experience and wisdom.

Isee myself stand taller and speak the word I didn’t want to speak, the same word that pressed itself upon me earlier. The word I thought was nonsense, because it scared me. I hear myself pledge it and it feels right. There is nothing else I could have said.

My first pledge

Imbolc wasn’t the first time I made such a pledge. Fifteen years earlier I was at a large Christian festival in Germany and where the Jesus Freak movement was holding a public service. I was raised in a conservative Christian church, and the Jesus Freak movement offered excitement, a way to live my faith without being restricted by as many cultural norms. I couldn’t wait to go to the service and arrived early, but to my disappointment a crowd of hundreds, maybe thousands was already gathered. The service was to be an open air event inside the walls of a bombed out church. The setting was beautiful, but it was clear that the space within the walls would hold less than a quarter of the crowd. Security was already busy turning people away.

In proper German fashion I elbowed my way to a burly security guy and asked if there was any chance of getting in. He shook his head and told me to leave. I was so disappointed, I couldn’t help but tear up a little. I really felt like I needed to be at the service; it was the highlight of the entire festival for me. As I turned to go, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the security guy. He smiled at me and said: “you really want to get in, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, hold on then” he said. He grabbed my shoulders, and lifted me up unto the wall, through the open hole where a window once had been. He pushed me through the hole and gently dropped me on the inside. “Go!” he shouted, as he continued to push back the crowds.

I was ecstatic. I felt like God had provided a miracle for me to be here. The leader of the Jesus Freak movement preached a fiery sermon and I cheered when he asked who was excited to follow Jesus. Then he asked who felt called to pledge their career to Jesus, to enter a life of full time ministry. As much as I loved Jesus, I never thought to enter the ministry. It was clear to me that I would pursue a normal life with a normal job and that I would evangelize, preach, and lead worship in my free time. But suddenly I felt an energy rush through me, fire and light and life, and my arm shot into the air. I didn’t mean to raise it. I tried to take my arm down, but my muscles obeyed only the energy, so fierce, so passionate, so connected with all that is. I couldn’t bring myself to withdraw my pledge. I yielded and let the energy take me and I was counted among the pledgers. And just like at Imbolc so many years later, it was the only thing I could have done.

Two pledges, two stories. I can’t think about one without thinking about the other. So much changed in the years since that Jesus Freak service. One pledge made by a teenager in Germany, the other by my 33 year old self in San Francisco. A fiery cauldron and a sunny church ruin. Two rituals, two deities, Jesus and Brigid. Are they the same or are they different? I still don’t have an answer. For now I have made my peace living with the question.